Croissants and Jam (14 page)

    ‘I need some fresh air,’ he says softly.

I sigh and watch him climb the gate and disappear down the deserted driveway. Bloody hell, what was all that about? I look at his phone. Should I or shouldn’t I? If the texts are the reason he has left the car, then I should, because in theory, this affects me too. But supposing they aren’t the reason? Supposing he just does not feel well? No, it was the texts I assure myself while reaching for his phone and clicking into them.

    ‘Honey, you are such an arse. I am in Rome waiting for you and you are not here. I really hope you are not in France, you know how mad that whole business makes me. Anyway I have booked into Villa La Cupola Suite and don’t annoy me by saying we cannot afford it. I want to spend some time together in luxury before meeting up with your family so text me for God’s sake.’

I whistle. My God, Villa La Cupola Suite, Jesus, I thought only millionaires and politicians on expenses stayed there, oh and Fergie, of course. No wonder he has such big debts. So, he is going to Rome to see his family. I scroll to the next message which is an email and shamelessly read it. It is Claudine again.

    ‘This is tedious and stupid Christian. Bloody phone me, it was only a bracelet for God’s sake. I hope you are not in bloody France, I mean it.’

I gasp. Did some other man buy her a bracelet? I see from the email that her name is ‘Claudine Williams’. I am about to read the most recent text when the car door opens and I sit guiltily holding his phone, which bleeps again as I pass it to him. I wince.

    ‘Sorry,’ I say, wishing I could crawl into a hole. Oh this is just dreadful.

He turns the phone off, throws it onto the dashboard and reaches for a biscuit. Oh thank God, he is back to his normal self, he must be feeling better. Relief flooding my body I also pop another piece of nougat into my mouth. I figure once I am married I can go on that Jenny Craig diet or something. I can’t be arsed to fart around with all that point counting at Weight Watchers. I always cheat when I do that anyway, knocking half a point off here and half a point off there. No, Jenny Craig will be great. I can also arrange for a personal trainer or something. Yes, I will get fit easily enough. I will buy a Jane Fonda DVD and exercise in front of the television. Bloody hell, how boring is that? Perhaps I will go to Pilates with Kaz, although the last time I tried that I almost fell asleep rolling on the sodding ball. Of course, I could try yoga again. Bugger, I won’t think about it now. As I pull myself out of my daydream I realise we are still not moving. I turn to look at him to see he is looking at me. Oh Christ, what now? Oh buggety bugger, he is leaning towards me and I lick my lips in anticipation. His warm lips land expertly on mine and my arm gently wraps itself around his neck. I feel his hand on my hair and close my eyes. I dare not think. Oh no, why does this feel so perfect? Why do my lips so naturally match his? I close my eyes and feel his tongue gently pushing. Oh, this is not just a kiss, it is pure heaven. I feel his hand gently slide round my back and hear myself moan softly. I really should push him away but instead my arms wrap themselves tighter around his neck. His lips gently stroke my cheek and then he is moving away from me and I open my eyes to see his face above mine. His lips are pink and his cheeks flushed. I exhale and gently push him further away from me.

    ‘I probably shouldn’t have done that, should I?’ he states bluntly.

I am speechless and alternate between shaking my head and nodding it.

    ‘I mean, you’re getting married aren’t you?’

I nod, still unable to speak. He looks at his phone.

    ‘I am also getting married in about six months. I really should have known better. Are you in a great rush to get to Rome?’

I stupidly shake my head. Oh for heaven’s sake Bels, say something, what is wrong with you? You are starting to resemble one of those nodding dogs that sit in the back of people’s cars. I shrug helplessly and then find my voice.

    ‘Sorry, I… That was lovely.’

Oh bugger, what am I saying? I can’t possibly say our kiss was lovely. It was more than lovely it was amazing, mind blowing. In fact, it would qualify as the best kiss of my whole life, and you can trust me on that. I have kissed more than my fair share of frogs. In fact, I have probably been on more blind dates than anyone I know.

    ‘I am marrying a very sensible man,’ I say firmly.

    ‘I’m sure you are,’ he agrees, opening a bottle of lemonade.

    ‘Is that diet?’ I ask stupidly.

He produces two glasses and laughs. I watch as he pours the sangria into them and adds the lemonade.

    ‘Here’s to your wedding to Mr Sensible,’ he says smiling.

We clink glasses and I wonder if just thinking of having an affair, before you are even married, counts as adultery. Both our phones are switched off and we are in a quiet secluded place. Oh my God, anything could happen. I must marry Simon, I must marry Simon, I repeat like a mantra. I knock back the sangria knowing it will not help my hangover and shudder as the liquid hits my tongue. I splutter slightly and he bangs me on the back.

    ‘Come on, I want to show you what it is that Claudine hates so much about France, or are you in a great hurry to get to Rome?’

Shit, I only have a wedding rehearsal to get to, future in-laws to meet, and most likely a very angry soon-to-be husband waiting.

    ‘No, I am not in a hurry,’ I say.

He climbs from the car carrying the glasses and sangria. He hands me the lemonade and then leads the way through the gate. I follow him down the deserted driveway and realise I am acting like an insane woman. I don’t really even know the guy and I am following him further and further into what seems like desolation. Good Lord, he could murder me. We are now out in the open again and are surrounded by fields of lavender and rolling hills. About fifty yards ahead of us is what looks like the ruins of an old house. He walks towards it, turns and smiles.

    ‘What do you think?’ he says gesturing to the house.

I can see scaffolding and realise that the house is being restored,

    ‘You own this?’

He nods proudly.

    ‘Yup, six months ago. The house needs a lot of work but I bought it for a song.’

He is clearly very enthusiastic about his purchase. I stare uncomprehendingly. So Claudine hates it. Do I blame her? After all what is it except just another extravagant purchase by Mr Reckless?

    ‘It’s fabulous,’ I say, because if I am truthful, it really is a fabulous place. I follow him inside the house. The floor has been laid with flagstones and beams straddle what I assume is a kitchen. The living room has a wide stairway to the side and spectacular view of rolling lavender fields from one wall which is made entirely from glass.
The wall on the right is made from stone and has a fireplace big enough to fit a bed in it. I can imagine the room in the winter with a roaring log fire, a huge Christmas tree loaded with presents and decorations hanging from the beams.

    ‘It’s fantastic,’ I say almost holding my breath.

He nods.

    ‘Yes, I love it. It’s perfect here and I fully intend to have the house finished by the end of the summer. I may be living here alone of course but anyway... I hate New York, it is too crazy there.’

I follow him back outside and he waves his arm in an arc.

    ‘Here, I am going to build a veranda so in the summer you can sit out here and watch the sun go down. For the winter I am fitting an Aga in the kitchen and a log burner in the lounge.’

His voice rises with excitement and for a second I am pulled along with him until I remember that things like that cost money and I cannot imagine, even as a posh man’s builder, that he can really afford it. I find his enthusiasm contagious and find myself hoping he really does achieve his dream.

    ‘It sounds perfect,’ I respond.

He pours more sangria into the glasses. Words dance around in my brain. I have to tell him that the kiss meant nothing, that it was a mistake and that I didn’t really mean it when I said it was lovely. Oh buggety bollocks why did I miss the flight from France? Everything is getting far too complicated for my liking, and to make things worse, the more nervous I get about the wedding the more I eat.

    ‘One for the road.’

I jump at his voice and see he is handing me my glass. I gulp it down in one hit and shiver with the bitterness of the sangria.

    ‘Right, let’s get you to your fiancé,’ he says lightly.

I attempt a smile and realise it is very weak. Back in the car I check my Blackberry and then scroll into my Facebook account. I punch in
Claudine Williams
and hold my breath. My God, there are five of them. I dread looking at the photos. The first one has thick-rimmed glasses and looks all of sixty-five. Ooh, the next one is so pretty that I almost gasp. This must be her, no, she lives in Moscow. Okay, three to go. Next a sad-eyed slobbery bulldog, could that be her? This dog is so ugly, maybe this is her dog. They say that owners look like their dogs don’t they? Or do the dogs look like their owners? Maybe she is not so pretty after all. No, this one is married. I scroll to the next one and up pops a photo of Christian with his arm around a beautiful blonde. I feel my breath catch in my throat. Oh my God, she is stunning. I click into her profile page, praying that she has loose security settings and yes I am into her photo albums. The album is titled
Christian’s surprise thirtieth birthday party.
I stare at one photo where he looks so lovely that I can barely take my eyes off him. I look for a share button but sod it, there isn’t one because, of course, she isn’t my friend. Not that I would ever want her as my
friend.
I attempt to save the photo on my phone and after several tries I manage it. I close the application and then, with dread, check my own messages. I am a bit shocked to find there is nothing from Simon and just a simple text from Kaz, saying she looks forward to seeing me. Simon must be very mad with me. I throw the Blackberry back into my bag and sigh.

    ‘There is a police car behind us,’ Christian says in a matter-of-fact voice.

I slide down in my seat and try to see the police car in the wing mirror.

    ‘Do you think they will recognise the car?’ I ask worriedly.

    ‘Never mind
the
Lemon
,
I just hope they don’t smell the sangria on my breath.’

I kick the dashboard with my leg.

    ‘Oh no,’ I moan, ‘Why did you drink that? Oh Jesus, this could be the end of my wedding.’

He sighs heavily.

    ‘Your wedding, your wedding that is all we hear about it. I have to get to Rome too you know, you never ask why I have to be there.’ He angrily grinds the gears. Bloody cheek, and to think I just downloaded a photo of him. Yes, shame on you Bels, why on earth did you do that? Is it my fault he drank bloody sangria and then drove the car?

    ‘I am sure you have some flimsy reason for going to Rome. Your whole life is full of flimsy things,’ I retort murderously.

I push myself up in my seat, see the police car is very near, scream and slide down again.

    ‘Flimsy, you think I am flimsy,’ he says changing gears with yet another crunch.

I grit my teeth.

    ‘I don’t
think
you are flimsy, I know you are. Can you not grind the gears please?’ I explode.

God, this man is so damn arrogant kissing me like he did. He gives me a sharp stare and deliberately crunches the gears again.

    ‘I am turning off here and we better hope they don’t follow.’

    ‘It’s not my fault you drink and drive,’ I say, sliding across my seat as he takes a sharp bend.

    ‘Do shut up woman if you can’t say anything sensible,’ he says dismissively.

    ‘How dare you,’ I stammer.

Tears prick my eyes. How can he speak to me like this? All I want is to get to my wedding and so far everything that could go wrong has gone wrong and it has been his fault. He does not even care about my feelings. I fumble in my bag for a tissue and slip my sunglasses on so he doesn’t know he has upset me. I cannot believe all this is happening to me. I am travelling in a rust bucket and wearing cheap supermarket clothes. My companion is a debt-riddled builder with a penchant for glamorous blondes and classic cars and now I am being chased by the police for a crime I did not commit. Simon please forgive me for the carnal thoughts I have had. I really am trying to get to you and I really will be the best wife ever. I am so busy begging forgiveness from Simon that it is a moment or two before I realise we are speeding along a country road. I grab the side of my seat.

    ‘What are you doing?’ I shout above the wind that is whistling through the sunroof.

He gestures behind us with his thumb and I turn to see the police car close upon us.

    ‘Oh shit, do you think we should stop?’ I say breathing unsteadily.

He shakes his head and for the first time he looks serious.

    ‘I don’t think so, not now there are too many things against us. They will probably want to question me for speeding and then they will realise we have been drinking and, of course, they may well recognise the car, and it hasn’t helped we have tried to get away from them. I’m nowhere over the limit but all the same, the best thing is to try and get into Italy. I trust you still want to get to your wedding?’

I give him a long look.

    ‘I can’t think of any reason why I wouldn’t want to get to my wedding, so I don’t know why you are asking.’

He crunches the gears again as we climb a hill. I clutch both sides of the seat as we speed up the hill and squeeze my eyes shut in terror as we approach another car and madly overtake it. The police car has its siren on and I glance at Christian who is staring ahead intently.

    ‘I think we should stop before this gets too dangerous, does this car have airbags?’

    ‘The only airbag in this car is you Bels, can’t you stop talking for one minute?’ he snaps.

He pulls the car over and my heart sinks. Oh my God, what if they arrest me? I hate this man, I hate him so much. The police car overtakes and continues down the road at great speed. We watch as the blue light disappears within the dust trail that followed the car.